Torn Silk

by Mark Dryden

  "But he couldn't. He was flat broke."

  "I know."

  She frowned. "You think his tax debts had something to do with his death?"

  "It's possible, though I can't see how."

  She shrugged. "I can't either."

  "Anyway, you'd better get in touch with the insurance company and find out about that policy."

  "Sure."

  Terry's financial plight was rather depressing. I changed the topic. "Have you spoken to Maureen?"

  "Yes. She called a few hours ago. Didn't seem the least bit upset about Terry."

  "They had a bitter divorce. Why'd she call?"

  "Money, of course. Terry was supposed to make a maintenance payment every month, but was three months behind."

  "And she wanted you to cough up?"

  "Yeah. I said I didn't have a dime."

  "Did she believe you?"

  "No. In fact, she got very angry. Accused me of playing games and threatened to take me to court. I just hung up."

  "You can't really blame her, I suppose. Nobody likes being taken off the tit. Requires a big adjustment."

  "Yes. But that wasn't the end of it: half-an-hour later, I got a call from David."

  I'd never met David, but Terry had often moaned that his son was a 25-year-old cokehead who couldn't hold down a job and would probably end up in prison. The kid had already been in rehab twice and survived by sponging off his dad.

  Once, over a beer, Terry said miserably: "You know, he blames me for everything that's gone wrong in his life. True, I've been a lousy father: I was never around when he needed me. But I never smacked him and I sent him to a good boarding school."

  I said to Doris: "What did he call about?"

  "Money, of course. Said his father gave him about a thousand a week and he expected me to keep paying."

  "Terry really had some big commitments, didn't he? Everybody had a hand out. What did you tell him?"

  "What I told his mother: I don't have a brass razoo."

  "How did he react?"

  "Called me a bitch; said he'd sue, and hung up."

  "Mmmm, charming."

  "Yes, adorable. You know, I've only met him half-a-dozen times, when he tried to bludge money off Terry. If Terry didn't stump up, he yelled and screamed."

  "Terry never liked confrontations. I wonder …"

  "What?"

  "Where was David when Terry got murdered?"

  Her eyes widened. "You don't think?"

  "Why not? It's possible." I shrugged. "Though I suppose that's really a matter for the cops."

  She stood, looking tired. "Anyway, let's stop talking about all this stuff. Come into the kitchen. I'll make you a cup of tea."

  We strolled into the kitchen, where I sat on a high stool and watched her fill a kettle with water. She turned it on, leaned against the bench and sighed. "You know, when I married Terry, my motives weren't great: I didn't love him or anything like that. In fact, I liked you a lot more. But you didn't want me, so I married him. Yet, he was good to me. I mean, he could be annoying and fucking pompous, but he looked after me." Her eyes glistened and chin trembled.

  "Yes, he was a good man."

  Tears ran down her cheeks. "So, I feel guilty about cheating on him."

  Though her guilt was understandable, I didn't plan to mimic it.

  I said: "You shouldn't. I mean, you treated him well. You made him happy. That's what really counts. Whenever he talked about you, he always had a big smile on his face. Don't forget that."

  That was a flat-out lie, but she brightened considerably. "Did he?"

  "Of course."

  She sighed. "I still feel guilty."

  She stepped forward and buried her head in my chest. I'd heard that grief can unleash the female libido and prayed that didn't occur.

  Fortunately, the kettle whistled and she went off to make us tea. While drinking it, we chatted about Terry's funeral, to be held on Friday. The coroner had promised to release the body in time.

  Doris said: "Lots of people have rung up to offer their condolences. I even got a call from Justice Sloan. I didn't realise he was so close to Terry."

  "He was. What did he say?"

  "Just that Terry was a great mate and he'd miss him dreadfully."

  No point revealing my faint suspicion that the judge bumped him off. "That was nice."

  Soon afterwards, I kissed her on the cheek and went home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, on the ferry to work, I wondered if the Bar Association had known about Terry's enormous tax debt and was sharpening its axe. I'd been a friend of the new president of the association, Derek Tucker, since we attended the Bar Reading Course together. When I reached my desk, I phoned him and asked if he had time for coffee. "I want to chat about Terry Riley."

  He laughed. "Then how can I refuse?"

  "Good. Five minutes? Usual place?"

  "Sure, see you there."

  I strolled around to an outdoor café in Macquarie Street where I sat and watched commuters slouch towards their offices, grey-faced, and felt glad I didn't work for a living.

  A few minutes later, Derek bounded towards me. A leading silk in the building & construction field, he earned a fortune appearing in hearings about defective structures that lasted forever and probed the outer frontiers of boredom. Despite that, he'd found time to become the President of the Bar Association.

  The association was about as relevant to me - and most barristers - as the Government of Uzbekistan. It let people into the profession and sometimes booted them out. Apart from that, it collected fees and provided a well-stocked library with helpful librarians. However, barristers who wanted to play politics - and network hard – could stand for election to the governing Bar Council and try to climb the greasy pole to the presidency. It was a tough climb because, though the barristers involved were only amateur politicians, they backstabbed like professionals.

  Derek dropped his spidery frame into a chair and frenetically beckoned a waitress. We both ordered cappuccinos.

  I hadn't seen him since he took office a few months ago. "Morning, El Presidente. How's the job? The glamour worn off?"

  He sighed. "What glamour? I shouldn't have taken the bloody job. I spend most of my time attending receptions, giving speeches to schoolkids and lobbying the A-G. My practice has gone to shit. It's costing me a packet."

  I felt little sympathy because he was already as rich as Croesus and, after his two-year term, would probably get the standard invitation to become a Supreme Court judge.

  I said: "I appreciate your efforts."

  A sardonic look. "Then you're the only one." He leaned forward. "Anyway, bad news about Terry, huh?"

  "Terrible."

  "I've heard that, when he died, he was leading you in a case."

  "That's right, before Dick Sloan."

  "So, you knew him well?"

  "Yes."

  "Got any idea who killed him?"

  "Afraid not."

  "None at all?"

  Why burden him with the scattered clues I'd collected so far? He'd just blow them out of proportion and blame the resulting confusion on me. "None, zero."

  "Have you spoken to the police?"

  "Yes. A Homicide detective sergeant called Malloy visited my chambers for a chat."

  "What did you chat about?"

  I smiled. "He asked what you've just asked."

  "And you told him you know nothing?"

  "Yep."

  "Did he hint where his investigation's heading?"

  I smiled. "Yes - nowhere. I think the cops are sifting through a mole-hill of evidence." I didn't mention that I might be the prime suspect because, like most barristers, Derek didn't believe in the presumption of innocence and was a chronic gossip. He'd put it around that I was a demonic serial killer.

  He frowned. "Damn."

  "Why are you so interested in Terry fate?"

  "Because, when a top silk gets murdered, it reflects badly on the p
rofession." He leaned forward, conspiratorially. "If there's going to be any more bad publicity, I want to be the first to know. Forewarned is forearmed, understand?"

  A politician to his fingertips.

  "I understand."

  "So, if you hear anything interesting about his death, you'll tell me right?"

  "Of course." I leaned back and crossed my arms. "In fact, I've heard one interesting thing about Terry, which might have something to do with his death."

  "What?"

  "When he died, he was in big financial strife: owed the Tax Commissioner almost two million and couldn't pay a cent. Did you know that?"

  Derek smiled. "Yes."

  "Really? How?"

  "The Tax Office and the Bar Association have a protocol. They're supposed to tell us when a barrister hasn't paid his tax so we can take disciplinary action. They notified us about Terry four months ago."

  "What did you guys do?"

  "We wrote a 'please explain' letter."

  "Did Terry respond?"

  "Yes, a couple of weeks ago he wrote back that he had a temporary cash-flow problem, and would soon pay the debt in full."

  "Then he died?"

  "Yes."

  "And, so far as you're aware, he never stumped up the dosh?"

  "Correct."

  "If he didn't pay his tax debt, you guys would have rubbed him out, right?"

  Derek looked surprised at my naivety. "Of course. We'd have had no choice. We couldn't let a big silk like Terry off the hook. There'd have been public outrage. In fact, my term in office would have been permanently tarnished."

  "Maybe you could have suspended him for a year or two, and then let him back in?"

  "Nope. We'd have given his career a big green needle."

  Terry really had sliced his career into the deep rough.

  I said: "That would have destroyed old Terry. What if he managed to pay the tax man? What would you have done?"

  "That would have changed everything, of course. We'd have told him to sin no more and sent him on his way."

  "You mean, he'd have kept his practising certificate?"

  "Of course, if he dodged the other bullet heading his way."

  "What bullet?"

  "One of his former clients recently lodged a complaint with the Legal Services Commissioner."

  "What sort of complaint?"

  "Oh, the usual: claimed Terry badgered him to settle for too little."

  During settlement negotiations, the interests of a plaintiff and his barrister often diverge. The plaintiff is often greedy and overconfident, and demands top dollar; the barrister is usually acting on a no-win/no-fee basis. So, once the plaintiff has been offered enough to pay his legal costs, the barrister has a big incentive to switch sides and recommend settlement. Then the client wakes up the next morning and decides the barrister he loved and respected was, in fact, a dirty rat who sold him down the river, and complains to the Legal Services Commissioner.

  I certainly wasn't surprised a client had complained about Terry, who was known as a "pioneer" because he was an early settler.

  I said: "How strong was the complaint?"

  Derek shrugged. "Don't know. It was still being considered when Terry died. But I'd be surprised if the commissioner found any professional misconduct. You know how hard it is to review settlements: the barrister says he made a judgement call and it's bloody hard to second-guess him."

  "Have the police interviewed the former client?"

  "Don't know. I expect they'll have a chat."

  The waitress put our coffees on the table. Derek poured some sugar into his and stirred vigorously. He took a sip and stared at me. "How's your practice?"

  "No complaints: briefs keep turning up; clients keep paying. I'm satisfied."

  "That's good, because applications for silk close in about four weeks time. Did you know that?"

  I sat up. "I saw the circular."

  "You going to apply?"

  "No."

  "Why not? You've been at the bar for about 15 years; you've got a good reputation and plenty of clients. You should."

  I didn't intend to apply because I didn't like the process, wasn't sure I'd succeed and, perhaps most importantly, didn't want to be a vehicle for my father's ambition. "Maybe, but I don't enter beauty contests."

  "We're a bit more thorough than that."

  "Bullshit. Five silk, most of whom I hardly know, get together and decide whether I'm good at my job. I don't need that: life is too short."

  "You mean, you're afraid of getting turned down?"

  "Of course."

  He leaned forward. "What if someone on the committee - someone important - promised to support your application?"

  I hid a shiver of excitement. "What do you mean?"

  "I'll be chairman and I'll speak up for you. That should do the trick."

  Because the rest of the committee would fall into line behind him, he was effectively offering me silk. I wouldn't have to risk damage to my ego. Of course, I hated having the prize slipped to me under the table and didn't want to reward my father. However, a surge of excitement swept those thoughts aside. I imagined myself parading along Phillip Street in a silk gown and ceremonial full bottom wig.

  Still, I couldn't bring myself to accept his offer, yet. "Thanks, I'll give it some thought."

  He looked surprised. "You mean you might not apply?"

  "I'll think about it."

  He leaned forward. "You deserve silk. That's obvious. Put your name forward."

  "Look, I'll probably throw my hat in the ring, but I want to think about it first."

  He looked perplexed. "What's the big issue?"

  I smiled. "For a start, I'm not sure that becoming a silk will make me a better person."

  He cackled. "I can guarantee it won't." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's your call."

  We gossiped for a few minutes about some other recent scandals at the Bar. Then I paid the bill and we headed back to our respective chambers.

  As I got into a lift, I wondered why Derek had encouraged me to apply for silk. Did he really did think I deserved it? Was he obeying the Old Mates Act? Or did he want to give me an incentive to keep him informed about Terry's death? And if I didn't keep him informed, what would happen? Would he withdraw his support?

  Anyway, I still had four weeks to agonise over what to do. Then, after exploring every nook and cranny of my conscience and carefully weighing all the issues, I would probably cave in to my ambition and apply for silk.

  Upstairs, Denise held out some mail. "For you. I can feel a staple inside."

  The classic sign of a cheque. "Good, then I might be able to pay you this week."

  "You'd better. You seem happy?"

  "Why?"

  "Oh, you're whistling you whistle when you're happy."

  "I do? What am I whistling?"

  "Can't tell. You're pretty flat. What's going on?"

  "Oh, I've been told I can go to the front of the queue."

  "What queue?"

  "I can't tell you. It's a secret."

  She frowned. "Piss off."

  I continued on to my room, still whistling a tune I couldn't recognise.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I'd arranged to dine with Yvonne that evening at a French restaurant in Milsons Point. I arrived first and sat pondering her agenda. Did she want to reheat our failed marriage? And if so, did I want to be the new-old thing in her life? Certainly, whenever I saw her my heart skipped a beat. But I still resented the way she left me for Rex Marston and couldn't forget how pushy and selfish she was during our marriage. Anyway, surely we could discuss our agendas like mature adults. Or was my greatest illusion that we had no illusions?

  She arrived a half-hour late, wearing a simple black dress with a blue bolero jacket and the earrings I gave her on our honeymoon. Her hair looked freshly permed. She seemed to be sending me a message. Now I had to work out what it was.

  I kissed her cheek. "You look lovely."

  "Tha
nks." She sat and sighed. "Phew, sorry I'm late: had to pop home and change."

  "How was your day?"

  "A bugger."

  "Why?"

  "I had to listen to two idiots make their final submissions. After a two-week hearing neither knew what the case was really about. No idea."

  "You enlightened them?"

  She smiled. "I tried, then gave up. They can find out when they read my judgment."

  "Anyone I know?"

  "Yes. In fact, they're both on your floor."

  "Who? Who?"

  She smiled. "I'd better not say."

  A half-serious frown. "Come on, you can't do this to me."

  A small grin. "I'm afraid I must." She sipped some water. "Anyway, you must still be in shock."

  "About Terry?"

  "Yes. My God, murdered. I was going to give you a call, but decided you'd have enough on your plate. Any idea who did it?"

  "Nope."

  "You were appearing together?"

  "Yes, before Dick Sloan. The hearing's been adjourned for a week. Then I'll run it."

  "Did his death have anything to do with the case?"

  I hadn't even considered that possibility. "Can't see how. I mean, it's just a garden-variety personal injuries action - a sad waste of Dick Sloan's intellectual firepower."

  She fingered her serviette. "God, Doris must be in hell. Have you spoken to her?"

  "Yes."

  "How is she?"

  "Shocked, of course. She found the body."

  "Poor woman. You know, I heard that, at one stage, you two were, umm, seeing each other."

  I shivered. What did "at one stage" mean? Did she know or suspect I was still seeing Doris when Terry got knifed? Play it cool. "Yes, before she got married, though we were never serious."

  "You mean you were never serious?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Because you're never serious about anything, are you?"

  If she was trying to build a bridge between us, she was going about it the wrong way. I pushed back. "That's not true. I was serious about our marriage, until you left me."

  She frowned and sighed. "OK, I'm sorry. Not fair. I've had a long day. You seeing anyone right now?"

  "Nope."

  She looked dubious. "Really?"

  "Yes, really."